


Of your glory! Let me be the vessel

by sianii



Series: Domme [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, D/s, Dom!Inquisitor, Domme, F/M, Introspection, Service Submission, also we just need more, cullen is a sub who falls before the inquisitor and no one will convince me otherwise, female!dom, if u are inclined to gimme feedback already i will work more quickly, in all fandoms, is it lavellan? is trevelyan? i dont know and i hope you can insert whoever you want, its also not betaed, not finished but i needed to post sth for my own peace of mind, sub!cullen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-10-24 05:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sianii/pseuds/sianii
Summary: "There is this urge inside of him, to throw himself at her feet, beg her for direction and orders, as if serving her well enough would redeem all of the mistakes, all of the wrong decisions and bad choices he has made."





	1. Chapter 1

Lady of Perpetual Victory, your praises I sing!  
Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable  
Of your glory! Let me be the vessel  
Which bears the Light of your promise  
To the world expectant.  
Canticle of Exaltations - Exaltations 1 - Preludium

When Cullen first meets the woman, who would soon be known as the Inquisitor, he does not really know what to make of her. She seems thoroughly out of place and yet she has this air about her: fearless and confident, in the way that she faces off against Cassandra and Leliana right after being faulted for the tear in the sky. Her shoulders squared, she follows instructions under duress with a dignity, he feels he has not witnessed since Hawke doing Meredith’s bidding. Hawke too had always come out on top and followed her own ends in the great game she had been thrown into.

Cullen might have been the one the least surprised, when it is less than half a year later, that Leliana, Cassandra and he himself now follow the newly crowned Inquisitor’s lead. Her shoulders are still squared, and she has just become more confident and fearless; ready to sacrifice herself for the greater good and all she values, as well as commanding a whole army of soldiers, spies and diplomats with simple determination.

Since arriving at Skyhold things have normalised, as much as they can at least. Between reconstructing the castle and all of the refugees and recruits, dignitaries and diplomats streaming into the castle, the Inquisition has made a home of the place. They feel more settled and safer here than they ever could at Heaven. Cullen very much enjoys his new quarters and especially his proper office. Despite the newfound comfort he cannot help but feel restless though. A restlessness that increases tenfold when the council meets with the Inquisitor in the war room, when he observes her sitting in judgment on her throne in the great hall or when she steps up to him in the court or in his office.

There is this urge inside of him, to throw himself at her feet, beg her for direction and orders, as if serving her well enough would redeem all of the mistakes, all of the wrong decisions and bad choices he has made. Of course, he doesn’t; would not know how to ask or what he would even be asking for. He serves her already; his whole life is in servitude to the Inquisition and hence to her, but this need feels more personal. He wants to be there for her, serve her, not just the instituion she represents or the title she holds. But that is not his place and he would not want to burden her with yet more needs and expectations to put on her already heavy shoulders. His demons are his alone to combat and she is served best by being bothered as little as possible. And so, he serves the only way he already knows how: being her commander, her advisor and trying to keep his personal dealings away from her.

When he succumbs, he tells himself that it is in her interest to know how he is struggling; that she deserves to know. That she _must_ know. She bristles, when she learns how long he’s been keeping his strive with addiction from her. He reassures her that Cassandra has been watching over him, that he will defer to her, if must be. Suddenly he feels very guilty for ever having secrets from her, questioning his own motives for doing so. And then there is that longing for her to decide. That it will be her judgement to make. That she’ll watch over him, instead of Cassandra. It’s selfish, exactly that kind of burden he didn’t want to put on her, but now that she knows, he longs for it even more. When her gaze softens, and she inquires about his comfort, he has to reign himself in, assuring her, instead of baring himself more than he already has. How bad the withdrawal had gotten, should have never reached her ears. Headaches, jitters, so far he hadn’t spaced out during his working hours or lost himself during a training exercise but that seemed to be pure luck. It was bound to run out one of these days and then either he would have harmed himself, a fellow soldier or the Inquisition irreversibly. Cassandra didn’t agree, which made him even more agitated.

When the Inquisitor walks in on them arguing, there is nothing to be done but apologise and retreat in shame. People approach him on the short walk between the smithy and his tower, but they take one look at him and scurry off. He goes right for the little Chantry-issued box, the lyrium seemingly calling out to him, the figure of Andraste mocking him, as the weakling he is. He stares at it, torn between the urge to take it and the longing not to. Reason has left him weeks ago. He doesn’t know what the right decision is, and it seems that Cassandra’s word as guidance, is not rule enough anymore.

In retrospect he couldn’t say what brought him to yell and smash his lyrium kit against the door, but any emotion that had overpowered him, is followed by horror, when he realises, he nearly hit the Inquisitor in his foolish, unbridled state. She makes light of it and he is grateful, until the pain takes him, worse than in a week and he nearly stumbles to his knees. He cannot help but meet her statement of faith with biting sarcasm. He feels himself sinking into self-pity and it all tumbles out of him. The circle, the abominations, the endless torture. Then Kirkwall, Meredith, the rebellion that killed so many innocent lives. There is the anger again. Yes, he was a victim of mages, but he is not the only one that suffered. In a way, those that turned abomination, were just as hurt by the system as many others, as he himself. He is hurting now. He is just one of many.

For some reason, he still expects her to not understand. For some reason, the understanding he recieves, makes his insecurity squelch the anger that had just guided his words. His pacing is frantic, while she looks upon him, hands on her hips and brow creased. So many lives lost that he should have saved and now so many that he must guard with all that he has. Hers and countless others. He doesn’t even really feel the hard wood that he’s hitting, but he still seems to feel her gaze, disapproving, on his back. And then there are these words clear and cutting through the fog in his mind, questioning what he wants and telling him, that he can endure. He believes her. He will believe anything she says.

Afterwards he feels lighter. He calls in a maid, to clean up the mess and sends him to put away the rest of his lyrium, so that some templar might have it. If he is successful, others might want to join. They’ll have to do it willingly of course. It is only late at night, when he has settled down, that anxiety strikes again. He is still worried that he will in fact not endure, but he also questions, if he has revealed too much. The Inquisitor’s eyes are too observant, her wit to keen and in a way, he feels like she looked right through him, wondering if she had looked close enough to glimpse the heart of his desires. Desires he still does not know how to even put into words, but that revolve all around her.


	2. Chapter 2

When she comes back from the Fade, while one of her companions does not, the danger she runs into each day is dragged into stark sunlight and panic engulfs Cullen, strong like he hasn’t felt since the Fereldan Circle was crawling with abominations, stronger than any nightmare he has had in the decade since. With horror he listens to her report, offers little and flees to the chapel straight after. It’s there that she finds him, on his knees praying to a god and a prophet, that she is, who so many claim her to be and that the Maker and Andraste really do have send her and in return watch over her, more keenly than over anyone else and better than he ever could.

Her voice is soft again, when she inquires about his prayer. He doesn’t get up from his knees. His fear for her life and the lyrium deprivation loosen his tongue and he tells her freely, that the thought of sending her into harm’s way, day after day, of not being able to protect her, frightens him like nothing else. “I cannot bare the thought of losing you,” he confesses to the statue of Andraste, “I would do anything to help you, anything to protect you and if I cannot protect you, at least to serve you, so that nothing will distract you from doing what you must.” He pauses, then continues, quietly laughing at himself, “I’d black your boots, act as a footrest, if only I would know that I served you well. I might rest easier, if I knew, I had done all I could.”

To his utter surprise he next feels her hand, slowly carding through his hair. “Would that calm you, my dear commander? To serve fully and completely, mind, soul and body? Be loyal and of use to me, in every way a person can be to another person?” Her voice is quite and the motion in his hair calming, and he subtly presses into it. For a second, he is certain, that she is joking; the idea of her being so cruel is laughable though, while the conviction that this is real is dizzying. It seems that she had indeed glimpsed to his core and found him neither lacking nor revolting.

“I will give you everything. I am yours, Milady,” he croaks out and the admission is like honey on his tongue. It is followed by silence, but the strokes of his hair do not falter, and he relaxes into it, closing his eyes to concentrate even more intently on the simple motion. It’s unbelievably grounding and when she stops, he has to bite his tongue to not make a noise of discontent.

“Follow me,” she finally commands quietly, and he is up in an instant, armour clinking and feathers swooshing, as he makes to follow a couple of feet behind her, off to her right. She does not attempt to make conversation, as they pass through the garden and into the great hall. Both are nearly deserted, and no one bothers them or bats an eye. She leads him towards the head of the hall and for a mad second he thinks, she’ll sit down on her throne and use him as a footrest for everyone to see. Something clenches in his stomach, the ugly notion of pride, of being too good to debase himself like that for her in front of anyone. Before he can question that reaction further, she turns to the door on their left and up the steps into the tower, towards her chambers. There are other rooms in the tower, those of dignitaries as well as Josephine’s and Vivienne’s. Bull, Sara and Varric prefer their rooms in the tavern, while Solas sleeps in his study. He knows that Cassandra, especially as a Pentaghast could have rooms here as well but she avoids nobles as much as he does himself, rather taking commander chambers in the barracks, just as Blackwell does.

The walk up to the Inquisitor’s rooms is long and he must admit he is slightly hot under his collar when they arrive. She seems unbothered and he admires her even more for her endurance. “How can you stand walking up and down these stairs day in day out?” he expels, making her laugh. Something warm coils in his gut. “There is little, my dear Commander, I do as much as walking. Steps, hills, miles. My feet have touched most of Orlais and Ferelden by now. These stairs are nothing to me.” She’s grinning at him while she makes her way up the final flight of stairs and into her chambers, and he ducks his head in acknowledgment. Even though she has the status and riches of someone who should travel on a steed most of the time, her missions often require her to move quietly through unfriendly territory. He should have thought!

In her chambers there is an alluring fire burning. It’s dead night outside, but the sky is clear and starlight filters through the exquisite Serault glass that lines most of the room. The furniture is sparse but luxurious. Some was given as gifts to the Inquisition. He knows though that the bed in gold and ivory, Orlesian making, is something the Inquisitor indulged in on her last trip to the capital. He wonders if the sheets are as soft as they look. The Inquisitor meanwhile closes the door to the balcony before starting to light the candles in the room. Cullen, at a loss what to do, remains at the top of the stairs, following her every move with his eyes. “You should take off your coat and all restricting armour, my dear Commander. I want you to be comfortable. I have plans,” she tells him as she lights the last of the candles. He moves to follow her request quickly. Excitement and insecurity are battling each other in his chest, as he sheds his outer shell. Indecisive, where to put his valuable clothing, he’s grateful, when she motions to the ottoman to his left, where he quickly discards the items just as he was told. Only in his leather breaches and shirt he stands before her, feeling more vulnerable than he has ever felt under her gaze. He stands at parade rest, eyes straight ahead but not exactly looking at her.

“Very good,” he hears, and his cheeks begin to heat. Her voice is a mere murmur. She comes to stand right in front of him, and with their difference in height, he looks right over her head. “Eyes on me, Cullen.” His eyes shift down instantly, meeting hers. “I want you to listen carefully right now. If you want to leave, you are free to do so at any time, and I will never hold it against you. I have noticed your looks and I feel like I’ve peaked at your desires and we are both fortunate that they align. Here in these rooms I want us to be free to explore what joy we can find with each other in these trying times which have brought us together. You want to serve me, my dear Commander?” His mouth is as dry as the Hissing Wastes when he answers. “Yes, Milady.” That earns him a smile and he feels his own mouth twitch in return. “I’m glad. I know your loyalty is as great as the Amaranthine Ocean, but even great things must have bounds. I trust you to go against my will, in favour of your own well-being.” He bites his tongue at that, wanting to object an assure her that there is nothing she could ask of him that he’d be unwilling to do. In a flash he remembers his fear of being displayed in front of others. Maybe it is a flaw in his devotion, but it comforts him to know that she expects only as much as he is able to give. Still, he’d try to offer more. “I will speak up if needed, Milady. I hope that you trust my judgement, as much as I trust yours.” The statement seems to appease her and slowly, as if waiting for him to shrink back or dodge her, she lifts her fingers to his cheek. He closes his eyes at the warmth and intimacy of the light touch.

“Well said, my dear Cullen. Now I am going to tell you my plans for tonight. I have papers to get to. Reports mostly. As you so cleverly remarked, I do a fair bit of walking. I would very much enjoy a foot rub. I might also ask your opinion on things from time to time. Once I am done with my papers I will see, if I need further relaxation.”

Her eyes look steadily into his. Within them lies a silent challenge. He can still back out. It’s a test, of will, devotion and pride. On what side will he fall? Following her into this will change everything for good, cement a new dynamic in their relationship in a way even his admission or her offer haven’t. Cullen has never been a man to shy away from things. He longs to obey. Not in the task itself, but in the implication of it lies a heady meaning for him and for them. Mere seconds have past when Cullen nods. A small smile tugs at her lips before she turns to sit down at her desk, turning to sit sideways to it, so that Cullen will have space to kneel before her, without sitting under her desk. In a few strong strides he is at her side again and goes to his knees slowly. He can’t remember when he kneeled in front of another person for the last time. It’s different than doing it in prayer, even though the feeling of devotion is similar. She is watching him closely, he can tell, even with his gaze lowered. When she stretches out one shoed foot, he grabs it, circling her ankle and marvelling how his hand fits around it easily. There is so much strength in this delicate body. His name quietly spoken, reminds him of the task at hand and takes him out of his reverie.


	3. Chapter 3

Hesitantly he places her foot on his knee and unties her boots before devesting of it completely. For a beat he considers grabbing the other foot and repeating the procedure, but as he hasn’t been offered it, he refrains. Slowly he lets his hand slide up the bridge of her foot. Without the leather in the way he can feel the light peach hair peaking out from her breaches, tantalising him with the promise of her soft skin.

His thumb traces the bridge and then the arch of her foot before he starts to press in. He knows he isn’t very skilled at this, neither experienced nor naturally gifted. Yet he tries his best to press and prod and massage the tension and twisted muscles into something subtle and soft. He imagines he’s doing a good enough job when the Inquisitor gives a contended sigh and sinks further into her chair. _I should be using oil to help the process_ , he ponders at some point, followed by a _Next time_. He shakes his head at his own forwardness.

He doesn’t peak up at her, concentrating on the task literally at hand but the papers he hears rustling, indicate that while his attention is fully on her, hers is largely consumed by whatever reports she’s been given. For a while there are no sounds except for the crackling of the fire, the rustling of parchment only interrupted by the scratching of a quill from time to time and the constant howling of the wind outside that never seems to seize so far up in the snowy mountains the windows.

“Do you truly believe it best to send troops to investigate the resurgence of darkspawn at the Storm Coast, Cullen?” He falters for a second, his concentration disrupted and in need to take a second to gather his thoughts and resume his work at her feet. He recalls the report she’s referring to. One of his soldiers wrote it. Leliana advised that some of her people could sneak past the darkspawn to find their emergence’s origin. “I do not recommend sending spies to do work fit for soldiers. We do not need finesse to sweep the area, kill those already above ground and drive those back who are smart enough to not engage. We need strength and numbers. We have Fereldan soldiers in our ranks, stationed at the coast. Some of them veterans of the Fifth Blight. Others have already fought the darkspawn in its aftermath. All of them have lost something during the blight. I would let them engage. They are motivated and skilled. I do not doubt Sister Leliana’s scouts’ competence but sending them is a risk to their lives and does little to contain the threat at hand.” While he speaks, he doesn’t look up or pause, unwavering in his service. Above him the Inquisitor hums in thought. “Thank you for your opinion, my dear Commander. I am inclined to agree with you. I will make my decision known at tomorrow’s meeting.”

He hears her making a note on the report and smiles to himself. Of course, this isn’t the first time she has asked his council or followed his advice, but he had never been kneeling at her feet, when such an exchange had taken place. Her approval and thanks envelop him like a warm blanket, reassuring him of his value to her.

While he massages her foot, she intermittently asks his opinion and he offers it up, if he has anything to say on the matter, deferring to Josephine or Leliana, if a question is outside of his expertise. After a while there is a stretch of silence so long, he cannot stop himself from peaking up at her. Her head his bowed over some report and she’s biting at her lower lip, seemingly deeply in thought. She is a sight to behold. She always is but there is something about the view above him that steals his breath. As far as he knows, no one else gets to see the Inquisitor quite like this: enraptured but relaxed, without the ceremony of her title but still exhibiting that grace that is inherent to her. His eyes widen, when his gaze is caught by hers. He notices that his fingers had stilled, limply holding her foot. There is a smile playing around her lips, her eyes full of mirth.

“Are you quite alright, my dear Commander? Are your fingers already tiring?” Embarrassment reddens his cheeks, but he cannot for the love of Blessed Andraste herself lower his gaze. “No, Milady, I was just…” His voice breaks on the last word and the eyebrow raised at him, has him averting his eyes. The feeling of fingertips against his cheek – still so warm, still so intimate – has him sucking in a deep breath. “Tell me, Cullen.” It’s a command, if there ever was one and so he must obey. “I was just…” His eyes shut, her fingertips feel like they are burning his skin, leaving marks. “You are…” He tries again. Why is this so bloody hard? He’s admitted everything else to her. Why is it easier to admit to wanting to lie at her feet than to confess how beautiful he finds her?

“What am I, Cullen? What do you see?” He must be imagining it, but her voice seems to waver when she asks and if she needs to hear it from him, he will tell her. He opens his eyes, his voice now calm and strong, he tells her, as if reciting a prayer.  
“You are wisdom and strength and endurance. You are the Inquisition’s heart as much as his head. You are kindness and cunning. You evoke devotion in all people, by words and by your deeds. Where ever you go, you remake the lives of royalty and peasants, sparing as much time for either. There is a light in you, bright and pure. Sometimes it’s like a star in the night, showing people the right way. Other times it’s like the sun, burning powerfully, lying devastation to your enemies and giving life to your allies. It is blinding and beautiful and once you’ve looked at it, it is difficult to avert your gaze.” He chuckles lightly. “At least it seems difficult to me.” The Inquisitor shows no reaction to his litany, neither her gaze nor her fingers wavering.

Her voice is quite when she asks “Do you believe me to be Andraste incarnate? Do you think you are serving her, when serving me?” Cullen must admit, these are questions he as contemplated himself already. He knows what the people say. He also knows what she learned when she was in the Fade. “No and yes,” he finally settles on and continues before she can ask, “I do not believe you to be Andraste come back to earth. I believe though, that we are doing the Maker’s work by mending the sky and restoring peace to Thedas. You are doing the Maker’s work and I am doing my best to aid you however I can. As long as I am serving you, I will always be serving the Maker and his Bride.” There is a pinched look around her eyes and he loathes to have put it there. “But,” he amends, “I could serve the Maker by simply giving you council but it’s… it’s not enough! I have this need to give you all I have. Not for the Maker’s sake or Andraste’s but for yours. And also… also for myself.” He turns his face away from her fingers, squeezing his eyes shut, as his cheeks flame at the admission. Maker’s breath he had hoped to be able to conceal how selfish he was in doing this. Hoped he could keep hidden how much this was fulfilling his needs, more than hers. How they were one and the same for him and how therefore his service would forever be tainted by his own self-regard and greed.

The soft touch of her fingers at his chin nearly has him retreating further into himself, but the fingers are strong as they turn his head back. His eyes stay closed and the Inquisitor doesn’t say a word. Next the feels both of her hands framing his face, caressing his cheeks. He sinks into it, unable to resists her gentleness. When he is pulled lightly forward, he follows easily, giving his imperfect self over to whatever she needs to do with him now, even if he is too much of a coward to face it. The touch of her lips on his forehead goes through him like lightning, making him freeze up and open his eyes in shock. When their eyes meet the unhappy look is gone and the Inquisitor is smiling at him, a gentle smile, one he has never had directed at him before. Their faces are close, the Inquisitor not pulling back and holding him in place with her hands on his face. She remains quiet as she leans forward once more, kissing his brow and then his cheek. Her lips are dry, slightly chapped from all her hard travels and the constant cold and wind in the mountains. Now that he has gotten over the initial shock, Cullen lets go and just feels into it, appreciating this gift she’s given him; every touch of her lips like a benediction.

She doesn’t break her silence when she draws back, sinking into her seat and extracting her foot from his still limp grip. His heart sinks for a moment until she offers him her other foot, her raised eyebrow a clear order to get back to his task. He eagerly does so, untying her boot and getting to work at the tense muscles of her foot, as soon as he has access to it.

It is close to another half of an hour, Cullen’s fingers tiring but the man himself unwilling to give up, until she speaks to him again. “Thank you, my dear Commander. It does feel like you’ve pressed all of the exhaustion out of my feet.” He doesn’t look up at the words but after hearing the scrolls rustle, he feels her hand in his hair, first caressing and then gripping. He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. “I am very tempted to use you as a footrest, just to watch you sitting at my feet a while longer. You are beautiful, you know? All that strength and pride and still you so easily fall before me and offer it all up to me. Absolutely stunning.” The praise and compliment are foreign to Cullen’s ears and he would have ducked his head, had her grip not held him in place. “But I think I seek another kind of pleasure from you tonight, if you are willing to give it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a weird bout of inspiration or just madness. Anyway: this is finally finished and I am just going to post it now. I might go over it again and change some things... not sure how round the ending feels to me yet but I was too excited to not post it because this has been nagging at me to be finished for literally half a year and now I can go to bed feeling accomplished. Also hoping this means I might finally start writing other domme! fics. If you can think of female characters who are total dommes to you but often get written as subs in fandom pls do comment and make suggestions! can't promise I'll do them, but I'd be interested to get some prompts...  
> and thanks for sticking with this!!

“Anything.” It’s the easiest answer he has ever given. “Well then help me with these,” she demands as her hand leaves his hair, prompting him to open his eyes again. He cannot help them widening as he catches sight of her. She’s untying her breaches and when their eyes meet, she gives him a pointed look spurring him into action. Quickly he moves to divest her of her trousers, still in awe of his own fortune. He had never dared to hope for this, even if he had dreamt of it more times than he will ever admit.

The Inquisitor lifts up in her seat and he lets his hands flow over her waist, thighs and finally her calves, as he slowly exposes her lower body. As the breaches fall between them, the Inquisitor leans back above him, getting comfortable as she spreads her thighs, exposing herself even more.

“You are allowed to look and touch to your heart’s desire, my dear Commander.” Her voice is a siren’s song and Cullen unable but to act on her word and fulfil his wants. His hands caress up her calves, broad strokes, up and down.  Her skin is soft, fuzzy with hair, and sometimes he can feel the ridges of battle and growth, as his calloused fingers travel up her legs and along the inside of her thighs. He hears her humming in delight and a quick peak up shows him that the Inquisitor is looking at him intently. To be examined so closely spurs him on even more. To question the limits of her command comes naturally to him and so he asks before he acts, if he may use his mouth on her. As she affirms, he leans forward to press kisses along her right thigh, stopping just short of her sex, only to repeat the same motion on the other. She sighs contentedly and one of her hands finds its way back into his hair, not tugging or directing him, just exerting a light kind of pressure and anchoring him further in his service to her. He dares to graze her soft flesh with his teeth, kissing and sucking at the soft skin of her inner thigh and in response she shudders, her hand flexing in his hair. As much as he wants to stay forever where he is, he does not intent to tease her for long.

Trailing more kisses along her leg, he reaches where he desperately wants to be. He can smell her, intimate and tangy with a sort of sweetness to it. He inhales deeply, his face pressing into her lap, as his mouth finds her sex. The pubic hair at her cunt is coarser than the fuzz on her legs but he enjoys the texture tickling his lips. He licks a wide stripe with the flat of his tongue from her entrance up to her clit, eliciting another gasp, her legs spasming under his hands. She is wet already and fleetingly Cullen wonders, if she got wet when he was massaging her feet or maybe when she looked at him kneeling in front of her. The thought passes quickly though, as he swipes his tongue along her slit, before finding the little nub that he knows will exhilarate her pleasure. His tongue prods at her clit, swiping and licking before he closes his lips around it and begins to suck. Above him the Inquisitor tenses. Cullen’s lips curl into a little smile.

The sharp tug at his skull makes him loose focus, a gasp escaping his lips as he loses his hold around her clit. The Inquisitor seems done with giving him free reign of her pleasure and with a strong hold on his head she directs him where she wants him to be, pressing his mouth to her cunt. He goes easily where she puts him, licking and sucking whatever part of her cunt she decides to press against his mouth until she finally flexes her hand in his hair, spiking pain at his skull and making him gasp. “Very still now , dearest one,” she pants out and then she scoots forward just a bit, legs going over his shoulders, as she starts riding his face. Cullen’s hands flex around her thighs, eyes closed. Above him the Inquisitors panting gets quicker, her moans more frequent and Cullen feels wonderfully helpless and used as she takes her pleasure from him. His tongue darts out, mouth open as he tries to give her all that he has. Her wetness and his spit mingle, to a point where it feels like both his face and the chair beneath her will be drenched through soon.

His erection is a dull throb between his legs, both insistent and far away, irrelevant to what he is doing, to what is happening. Her taste on his tongue is divine, and if he were conscious enough of that thought he’d blush at the blasphemy of it, but all he is able to do is cherish it, as he moans against her sex. The vibrations or his pleasure seem to topple the Inquisitor over the edge and with a drawn out breath, and a spasm to her legs and her hand pressing him against her cunt, she comes, more wetness gushing out, and now irreversibly soaking his face in her juices.

He stays there, working her through her orgasm with his tongue, licking at her hole, her labia and then again circling her clit. She jerks again and then goes soft and relaxed, falling back in her seat. The legs that had been locked around his head, fall down and settle on his shoulders, and while she does not let go of his hair, her grip loosens. Cullen glances up at her, as he keeps up his ministrations, gentler now, more cleaning than trying to stimulate her anew. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is startling to settle down. She looks thoroughly dishevelled, her cheeks rosy and a faint curl of a satisfied smile to her lips. He must have stopped without realising, caught in the image she presents before him, because she opens one eye to glance at him and her smile broadens as she catches his gaze.

“Thank you,” he croaks out finally, “I needed that.” Her eyes soften at that and her hand leaves his hair to cup his cheek. “My pleasure. Literally,” she purrs, her thumb following the wet curve of his mouth.” There is a beat of silence, where she seems to consider something before, she continues. “Is there anything I can help you with, my dear Commander?” The implication is clear and for a moment Cullen can see it. Can see her pleasuring him, and while she offered, it feels insolent to consider it. “Please don’t,” he finally begs, “This is all I want. To… defer to you and please you. I do not wish to become a weight onto you, instead of someone who unburdens you, of what you are already carrying.” Silence stretches between them and he’s afraid he’s misspoken until he feels the fingers on his cheeks, once more carefully lifting his face.

“My dearest Commander, my beautiful Cullen, your service is a gift. One I wish to reward as much as I wish you’d ask of me the things you need and desire. It is very well to think of yourself, too. In fact, I need you to consider yourself as much as you consider me.”

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He does not know how to what to make of this, but his Inquisitor just smiles and leans forward. A gentle kiss lands on his head and Cullen feels like melting at the touch that feels once again like a blessing. She moves back a fraction, their faces unbelievably close, her looking down, while he looks up. “I would at least ask you to think about what I just said, because it is the only way you can serve me, dearest one. I wish to have all of you, Cullen, and that means your needs, too. Will you give them to me or refuse me?”

Cullen swallows, feeling like he has a little Nug stuck in his throat. “Everything,” he whispers and after a second, amends, “All of me.” The smile that he is rewarded with, fills him up with heavenly light. The Inquisitor’s other hand joins the first, and she is now fully cupping his face, tilting it and pressing their foreheads together. “I am all the gladder for it, dearest one.” The endearment tugs at Cullen’s heart and makes his stomach clench.

He doesn’t expect her to press her lips to his a moment later and before Cullen even has really realised it happening, she moves back again. His eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open in surprise, but the Inquisitor simply smiles, brushing back the blond locks that had fallen into his face before retreating, her hands slowly brushing along his body before leaving it completely.

“Think of me then, when you take care of yourself up in your chambers later,” she says now. Even her legs have left his body and Cullen suddenly feels cold where her body had been wrapped around him a minute ago. “I command it,” she adds and the teasing tone to her voice, shakes him out of his reverie. He cannot help but grin up at her, feeling lightheaded and giddy due to all that had just transpired. He takes her behaviour as the dismissal that it is and slowly gets up to put his armour back on.

He is busy with straps and plates, as she disappears into an adjacent chamber, still naked from the waist down. If Cullen maybe intently watches her behind from the corner of his eye, only the Maker knows. She returns a moment later, as Cullen is just getting into his boots. His lady his wearing a comfortable sleep shirt now through which he can still see the curve of her figure in the faint candlelight. Her hair is loose and soft.

She steps up to him and once more cups his cheek, leaning in to press one dry kiss to his lips. This one is longer and Cullen’s eyes flutter closed as he welcomes the warm pressure and all that it symbolises. He presses back a bit, just to show how very welcome it is, but curbs any urge to reach out and embrace her in his arms, or deepen the kiss.

He still can’t help but try to follow her lips as she moves away, but the hand on his cheek prevents him from doing so. “I am very glad you came to me tonight, Cullen. I would ask you to do so again tomorrow night. There is still much to be said and even more that I want to do with you, _to_ you.” Her voice is a charm  stronger, more enticing than any desire demon’s promise ever could be, and Cullen doesn’t want to withstand. And so, Cullen inclines his head in deference and murmurs, “As you wish, Milady,” before retreating from her chambers.

Later, when he is lying on his own cot, one hand around his cock and the other tugging at his hair in a vain attempt to recreate how it felt when she did so, Cullen will replay every moment of their encounter and he will come with her name on his lips, blushing at the insolence of calling her so intimately by her given name.

Her words will also stay with him during the day, mulling them over as he goes through the motions of his daily tasks. When he arrives at her door the following night he will have come to a conclusion: it is not his place to decide what is a burden onto her. If it is her wish to know of his wants and desires, then it is his duty to be true. There are a few things in which Cullen can still trust and she is one of them. So as Cullen once again divests of his armour and sinks to his knees at her feet, as her hand settles into his hair and his eyes flutter shut when she calls out his name, Cullen knows he will serve her. Entirely and without question.


End file.
